Money: It doesn’t grow on trees. Cause that shit is a root. OneBad, that doesn’t even make sense. Shit, is this thing still on?

14 Jan

Hi y’all!

My friend No Pantsu, who you all may remember from the time he unceremoniously signed me up for military-style torture, IMed me the other day in a tizzy about my latest post.

“Your New Year’s Eve sounded SCARY,” he said. “But I don’t understand. Are there really ghosts in your basement?”

“Don’t be silly, No Pantsu, ghosts aren’t real.”

“Well then what was the laughing you heard coming from the bottom of the stairs?!”

“Oh! Gosh, I guess I never cleared that up. That turned out to be my downstairs neighbor guffawing at old episodes of 30 Rock. My roommates told me after they came home and went down to the basement in a troupe to turn the lights back on, then found me cowering under my blanket like a six-year-old.”

“Ahhh.”

———————————

So let that be a lesson to you, readers. There are no such things as ghosts.

Rat kings, however: Real as fuck

On account of not being real, ghosts are a lot less scary than what I did today! Remember the part where I talked about having basically been butt poor since I moved to New York four years ago cause I had the admirable foresight to join the print media industry at the very beginning of its death/an international recession/the end of the world?

Well.

I’m still pretty broke, but now that I freelance a bunch and don’t live in an apartment with 14 people in an area NY Magazine accused of having the highest rapes-per-capita ratio in the entire city, I thought I’d do something nice for myself to reward myself for all my hard work.

See, all my friends are doing quite well for themselves: Party Monster is working on commission for Allsaints Spitalfields, and those (beautiful, beautiful) clothes practically sell themselves. The Pharmacist hawks diamonds for a living. Gay Meow Meow is slinging drinks in midtown and dancing in music videos.  So they go to, like, a $150 concert a week.

And then I’m like, no NOOOO, y’all go! Hey! Yeah! Have a really good time! It’s cool that I can’t go…. No, don’t worry! I’ve got, you know, underwear… I need….to sort. It’s really important! Seriously, I don’t even mind!

*Gets drunk on $5 beers at the corner bar that serves free pizza*

So today, I thought to myself, “Fuck it, OneBad, you only live once. Go ahead and buy a $250 Coachella ticket.”

After waiting for an eternity in the virtual line, I finally get in, and it keeps declining my credit card because my phone number in the system is wrong.  Finally, I’m so frustrated I pull out the debit card. “Fuck you! System.  You don’t like that card? I’ll just pay in straight CASH! Because I am a BALLER!” I think (This is inaccurate, it seems).

I’m so excited to get to the purchase screen that I barely notice the $70 in fees they tack onto the damn thing, until I look at my bank account later and wince. Then I get an email from Party Monster, which looks like this:

“The plan is to get a solid crew (10 people max) to take over a house and MTV Beach House that shit to the ground! I’ve found a couple of reasonable places all around the $3800-4500 mark. So let’s do the math kids… that comes to roughly $380-450 a person.

THE CATCH…

Each property that I’ve been looking at has a security deposit coming in around $3000. Making our grand total for the house UP FRONT MAX $7500.
 
10 people
$750 up front, but only $450 after security deposit return”

At which point I panicked and ran around in a circle and fell down and vomited. (ok, not really) But then I was like, you know what, I should just burn the remaining $2 in my wallet for good measure. Stick it in a little pile in the corner and roast a marshmallow over it and cackle like I’m the 1%.

But I’m too scared.  What if I run out of money and those two dollars are the only thing standing between me and starvation?  (I once read that people who have been poor for a long time think this way permanently. And if Great Depression stories are to be believed, they also tend to hoard food–which is the excuse I’m using for the nest of year-old McDonald’s junior cheeseburgers I’m lying in right now in my underwear.)

So I just sniffed it instead.

Mmmmmm. Mooooonnneeeyyyy.

(P.S. Seriously, anybody want me to write some shit for them in exchange for money? I write real good. Promise!)

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